Plein Air For Two
by Eloise Lovelace
Summary: Percy just wants to do his job, not another guy... at least until the portraits of Messrs. Padfoot and Moony take over his office. Sequel to Trompe L'Oeil for Two. Slash: Percy and Oliver, also Remus and Sirius.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Plein Air for Two   
**Author:** Eloise Lovelace  
**Pairings:** Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood, Remus Lupin/Sirius Black.  
**Non-explicit background pairings:** Ron/Hermione, long ago canon-level Percy/Penelope Clearwater and a brief reference to Percy/Tom Riddle's diary. (There, I think I've probably just offended everyone's sensibilities in some way or another.)  
**Summary:** Percy just wants to do his job, not another guy... at least until the portraits of Messrs. Padfoot and Moony honeymoon in his office. A tale of one man's badly faltering denial, set twenty years post-war.  
**Rating:** hard R, mostly for sex but also for naughty language (Percy says "tarnation!" and Oliver says worse).  
**Warnings:** humor/fluff, consisting chiefly of fluff. Contains portrait sex, sex al fresco, use of chocolate in the bedroom (or on the beach as the case may be), and obviously voyeurism as well as non-portrait awkward first-time sex.  
**Length:** 16,750 words - short enough to still be a novelette, but long enough to get the error message, "This file is too big for Notepad to open. Would you like to use Wordpad to open this file?"  
**Disclaimer:** Although Harry Potter himself does not appear in any part of this story, most of the characters contained herein are from the Harry Potter series. They are owned by J. K. Rowling, whose seventh book is extremely unlikely to be called "Poncy Percy and the Extremely Gay Sport of Quidditch". All characters used without permission and without intent to profit.  
**Author's notes:** This is a sequel to a short little ficlet Trompe l'oeil for two. The underlying premise makes marginally more sense if you read that first.  
**Dedication:** To Imogene, beta and muse, for the encouragement to make forays into writing smut, even if it is Percy/Oliver and chockablock with various romance-novel tropes. Thanks also to snakelights for the original comment that spawned this fic!  
**Explanation of the wanky pretentious title:** No, that's not a typo. Literally French for "open air", _plein air_ is a painting technique of working outdoors, and also refers to the outdoor scenes made by such a technique (think French impressionists and their fixation with light and ambiance).

* * *

The Minister of Magic ducked out of her office, a quill stuck behind her ear, started to bid her assistant farewell, then turned about and returned to her office, muttering something about the signatures for the House Elf Rights bill. 

This would not be at all unusual if it weren't for the fact that Hermione had been "just on her way out" repeating variations on this ritual for the past three hours, totally ignoring the fact that her water had broken and she was well in the throes of _labor_, and not in the sense of the political party, either.

Percy was beginning to worry seriously that the baby on the way might succeed in actually in making its way out before Hermione did.

When his boss left her office for what must have been the hundredth time that morning, Percy said exactly what he'd said during the first ninety-nine: "Really, Hermione, you should go," hoping against reason that repetition might be what it took to penetrate that bushy mass of hair. He couldn't help the note of hysteria that was beginning to creep into his voice, because he was squeamish and often grew ill at the sight of blood.

Percy felt very strongly that the most bloody of his occupational hazards should be paper cuts, not a dealing with a woman pushing a large baby through what he suspected was a very much smaller opening. Percy didn't have vast experience with women's anatomy, being more of a career man who really didn't have time for that sort of thing, but he wasn't really very reassured by the fact that Hermione had done this three times before and lived.

He was very fond of the carpet in this room, it being not only the vestibule to Hermione's office but also _his_ office, and he really wanted to continue being fond of it for years to come. Even ignoring the matter of bloodstains, Ron _would_ kill him if Hermione didn't leave soon.

"But I've forgotten to label the file on the Higginbotham Hippogriff Protection case for you..." Hermione trailed off and was drawn to the door of her office by some invisible force.

Percy grabbed her to keep her from succumbing to the moth-like impulse to fling herself back on her desk. "Hermione, it'll be fine. The instructions you left are impeccable. And you, you are having _contractions_, and they are just _minutes_ apart now."

Hermione looked a bit crazed as she protested, "But the files, they're not cross referenced... they're not even alphabetized!" Percy knew this was because her due date wasn't for another three days, and she had been counting on those three days to organize things.

"I promise I'll floo call if anything substantive comes up, but I'm sure the press will be far too busy covering your happy event for the next couple of weeks for there to be much of a scandal about anything else."

Hermione sighed in agreement, but Percy didn't miss the longing glance she shot at her desk.

"Your happy event that will become a scandal by virtue of taking place in this very office if you don't go NOW," Percy dourly added.

Hermione inched towards the right door this time, the one that held the exit into the hallway, when she turned around.

"One last thing, Percy," Hermione said, sounding reluctant.

Percy snorted. He would believe it when he saw her leaving in the Ministry car. (Under these circumstances, floo was far too dizzying, and apparition was very ill-advised given the risk of splinching the baby.)

"I gave some portraits back at Hogwarts permission to use the painting over my desk. I know you'll be working mostly in my office and I just thought you should know."

Percy was so busy squiring her out the door that he didn't see her slightly guilty look.

"Yes, yes, Hermione, I'm quite sure that I won't even notice, now, look, there's your car waiting, hop along. Have a great labor and all that, cheerio!"


	2. Chapter 2

Percy realized only the next day how very wrong his parting statement had been, or at least, the first half. (Hermione had in fact gone on to have a great labor, at least as far as labors went, which Percy really preferred not to think about.)

He'd gone into Hermione's office very early that morning with a great feeling of importance, being Acting Minister for the next month and a half. Indeed, this was better than actually being the Minister of Magic because if anything seriously went wrong, Hermione would step in for him. He instead got all of the perks of power without too much of the responsibility. Even public opinion about the current administration would probably rely less on Percy's performance than on the cuteness of his newest nephew, little Jasper Octavian Weasley-Granger.

Percy congratulated himself at half after ten by stopping for tea, having put in over four hours of work already. He ignored the fact that those four hours of work had been answering press and dignitary inquiries by owl after the status of Hermione's labor... whether or not he was essentially reduced to sending birth announcements, being Acting Minister still _felt_ terribly important and official.

Percy stood up to briskly stretch, his back cracking loudly, and he was very glad there was no one to hear.

He spelled the teapot and _Accio_'d biscuits from one room over, what had formerly been his office. The heavy oak door slammed open and shut resoundingly, but then Percy heard other slightly muffled noises as well.

They appeared to be emitting from the portrait, which, as long as Percy had worked here, only ever emitted soothing beach sounds: waves and occasionally perhaps the soft hooting of a seagull.

'Oh, right,' he remembered suddenly. Hermione had told him right before she left, something about some portrait from Hogwarts using the painting for a holiday, though she hadn't specified the length of the planned stay. He was a bit disapproving of the fact that whoever it was had clearly been indulgently sleeping in only to be woken by his preparation of elevenses, but the presence of some portrait certainly wouldn't distract someone with such a strong work ethic such as himself. Besides, he thought that the portrait was surely Dumbledore's, and his onetime Headmaster deserved a nice quiet break in his dotage, didn't he?

Twenty minutes later, Percy was definitely distracted. Doors slamming, a toilet flushing and a tea kettle whistling, were all noises Percy's mind could easily filter out thanks to growing up with six siblings, all of whom were very loud. But the usual morning getting-ready noises of someone inhabiting the painted cottage had been replaced by a soft, throaty moaning and the rhythmic squeak of bedsprings, which Percy couldn't help but listen to. Percy squirmed uncomfortably and tried his very best to keep his mind on his work.

As the moans grew louder and more frequent, and became punctuated by gasps and occasional muttered obscenities, Percy's concentration on his work became well and truly lapsed. He began to speculate instead that the portrait was not Dumbledore (at least he really, really hoped it wasn't Dumbledore), and moreover that there might be two portraits inhabiting the painting, together. It was positively _indecent_!

Percy then had the comforting thought that maybe the sounds were Mr. and Mrs. Potter enjoying their reunion at last in what was probably relative privacy as compared to the Great Hall at Hogwarts. As embarrassing as it might be to have to overhear them, relations between a man and his wife were surely a wonderful thing, not that Percy would know personally, but otherwise, the church wouldn't bestow its blessing upon such things. Besides, surely, this would be a rare, one-time occurrence, and after their love had been consummated, Lily and James Potter would sit on a divan holding hands and taking tea for the rest of their holiday, as was befitting of famous, decorated war heroes.

So Percy grudgingly left the room, since he had to go to the owlery to dispatch his correspondence anyway, and might as well give the Potters privacy, since he supposed it was their right, being married and all. The brisk, cold air would do him good as well.

When he returned, he had about an hour and a half of peace and quiet interrupted only by the noises of breakfast being cooked and eaten (Breakfast! At this hour when the day was half over!), when the moaning started up again.

'Oh, _tarnation_!' thought Percy, but he looked at the clock and noticed it was time for decent people to be having lunch, so he hastily departed from the office again. It was only when he had already left the Ministry that he realized he'd forgotten his coat, but he didn't dare go back for it.

When Percy returned for lunch he was already annoyed because he was wet from being rained upon, and he hated looking bedraggled, especially at work when a professional, well-kempt appearance was so important... and on his first day as Minister, to boot.

However, when he gingerly crept back into the office well over an hour later, after a lunch break that was rather longer than he was accustomed to taking, it was not quiet at all. Instead, Percy was extremely aggravated to hear continued prurient shenanigans emerging from the portrait.

"You fucking _tease_!" pleaded the voice. "Please, Moony! Now!" Apparently whoever "Moony" was obliged, because that same baritone continued, "Fuck, yes, oh Merlin, fuck!" after which there was a rather hearty scream, and then, _finally_, there was quiet.

Percy was mortified to have heard something so filthy, because married or not, he didn't think it was proper to be having sex for such long periods of time, particularly not so loudly and so enthusiastically, and definitely not with so much swearing and blaspheming.

He was even more mortified to find himself in a bit of a state.

This was not at all how he'd imagined his first day going, and it rankled, but apparently not enough to make his unfortunate condition dissipate. Percy resentfully left again to take care of things in the bathroom, since _he_ had the probity to be discreet and private.

When he returned, he resumed working for a while and succeeded in firmly ignoring the painting, since the inhabitants were probably having some kind of decadent hedonistic post-fornicatory nap. Percy was just putting together a color-coded timetable for tomorrow, consisting mostly of meeting with lobbyists from industry, when he heard crunching sounds coming from the painting. He steadfastly refused to acknowledge this, since he was wet from rain and a bit sticky and sweaty from the après-lunch fiasco, and he was really beginning to resent the visitors Hermione had invited.

But still, decorum and good comportment forced him to look up at an enthusiastically shouted "Hullo there!" emerging from the painting.

Percy was horrified to note that the lanky, black-haired man ambling down the beach, wearing a towel slung low around his hips, was not James Potter after all, but rather, Sirius Black.

Although he knew now that Black was not a dangerous escaped convict, Percy blanched at the quickly-succeeding thought of what woman it might be in the painting keeping Black company... whoever it was, they had _not_ been married!

"Ah, you must be one of Arthur and Molly's brood; you look every inch a Weasley! But you're not one I recognize, so I'd guess you're Percival Ignatius!"

"Why, yes," Percy stammered, slightly offended at the familiar use of his given name, even if it was the complete version. He was the acting Minister of Magic, after all, and it wouldn't do to be addressed so casually, even by a portrait.

"Pleased to meet you at last!" waved Black, in a casual way totally bereft of dignity. "You must know that I'm Sirius Black - a bit infamous what with all that unfortunate, silly incarceration in Azkaban business." He gestured dismissively at the mention of his dark and harrowing past, as though a decade of grueling torture was absolutely trivial, and he really couldn't be arsed to be anything less than maniacally happy in the beautiful summer day of the painting.

Percy mumbled as noncommittally as his good manners allowed, not wanting to encourage the interloper in distracting him. Percy wondered if it was the long term exposure to Azkaban which had addled Sirius' brains, or whether it was that dangerous slothful lifestyle of sex, eating at odd hours and sleeping in past ten that had pushed him over the brink into insanity. Probably the unkempt, long, shaggy hair also contributed to the morally bankrupt state of affairs.

Instead, Sirius gestured at the opening cottage door, and added rather adoringly, "and that there is Remus Lupin, bringing lunch!" He gave an absurdly happy, almost besotted smile that Percy attributed to the bringing of food. Clearly, Black was a hedonist of the worst sort, ruled entirely by his baser instincts for food as well as fornication! "Oi, Moony, look, it's Percy Weasley!"

His former professor at least had the decency to be wearing a shirt and swimming trunks, and wore his towel over his shoulder. As Lupin trudged down the beach lugging a heavy picnic basket, he looked every bit as ridiculously happy as Sirius, albeit in a slightly less deranged, imbalanced way, although that might be attributable to his having had a haircut in recent past. Percy wondered who the two women that must be with them might be, and how the cottage was even big enough to contain two bedrooms. 'Magic,' he supposed.

Percy greeted his former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher perfunctorily and then excused himself to return to his work as the portraits set down a picnic.

Several minutes later, Percy was contemplating the proper form of address for a thrice-divorced, quintuplicately-widowed, newly single woman whose last marriage had been annulled, when the former husbands had had a goodly share of titles (military, medical and legal alike) between them, and the reason for the latest annulment had been that the husband had turned out to be a vampire, although the happy couple was still cohabitating.

Actually, Percy knew the rules, but he was really working out how said proper form could possibly be made to fit on an Ministry regulation-sized parchment front, given that the woman that he knew for being Blaise Zabini's mother was one of their chief campaign donors, and it certainly wouldn't do to offend her, when something entirely unrelated finally dawned on Percy.

He stared blankly at the large, unsightly inkblot he'd just caused, entirely too preoccupied to use the blotting paper or even a spell.

If Sirius Black had called Professor Lupin "Moony" on the beach, and a very distinctly male voice had been calling someone "Moony" in the throes of passion earlier, then perhaps the most parsimonious explanation was that Sirius had been calling Percy's former professor "Moony" while they were in the throes of passion. Together. Without any accessory women involved.

Percy was horrified, of course, as was only natural. However, he was also strangely fascinated: Percy did so prefer tidy, logical explanations that required the fewest extraneous steps, but in this case he almost hoped that he might be wrong. He stole a cautious glance up at the portrait, willing it against all reason to produce the two women that should by all rights be keeping Lupin and Black company on their depraved little vacation.

Instead, he saw Remus feeding grapes to Sirius, who was sprawled in his lap. They were also touching each other in a way that didn't seem even remotely platonic, except in the sense that Plato possibly had indulged in such naughtiness himself.

Though this confirmation represented a triumph of deductive reasoning, and therefore should be savored as a moment of personal victory, Percy felt quite like someone had just pulled the floor out from underneath him. His stomach lurched somewhere around the level of his knees, and his pulse pounded a manic counterpoint in his temples.

He stared, knowing it was extremely poor manners and also not conducive to getting his work done, but he couldn't seem to look away as the awful business with the biting and the wandering hand continued, until Sirius finished off the last of the grapes. Sirius then sat up and rummaged about in the picnic basket, triumphantly producing a brown jar labeled "Nutella".

In spite of a solidly wizarding upbringing, Percy recognized the container as being the chocolate-hazelnut spread that Muggle-born Hermione had been craving in her second trimester. She'd been terribly embarrassed about the nature of her cravings, something about her parents having been dentists and how Ron would give her a terribly hard time about eating something so sugary and cavity-promoting, so an alarmingly large stock of the jars had been cached at the office away from the prying eyes of spouses and parents.

At the time, Percy had suspected that using Nutella as a dip for kosher dill pickles wasn't the proper usage (even Muggle cuisine wasn't _that_ bizarre), but he knew that the employment as body paint that he was now witnessing was even further from the intended use as a breakfast spread.

Percy watched with mounting horror as Sirius pulled off Remus' shirt, firmly pushed Remus back onto the sandy beach, and then smeared a chocolate trail down his front, following the line of hair that lead down into the swimming trunks. Remus, amusement and arousal flitting over his features as he lay back propped on his elbows, finally grabbed Sirius' hand and licked off the chocolate in what was definitely an indecently suggestive manner.

As Sirius followed the sticky path he'd delineated with his mouth, a teasing hand skirting Remus' last remaining item of clothing, Percy became suddenly, horribly aware of where the business with the misappropriated Nutella was going.

Of course, Percy did the honorable thing, namely grabbing his papers and fleeing to the library to finish the afternoon's correspondence.

There, he congratulated himself on not thinking about Remus, Sirius and the melty chocolate every couple of minutes, because really, some things were too awfully debauched to even contemplate.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Percy awoke in an extremely disgruntled state. He'd had to wank twice before he could even get to sleep, and the indignity of that would have been worth it to have been able to get a good night's rest, but he had been harangued by blatantly erotic dreams all night. Though Percy had no recollection of any fantasy women upon waking, this was surely a consequence of the fact that Percy could never remember details of his dreams.

In addition to leaving him in a really foul mood, however, the dreams also left him aroused, which made him even angrier.

Though he was as annoyed with himself as with Black and Lupin, he supposed he had to do what he had to do. As he stroked himself perfunctorily in the shower, he tried not to think about the contents of his dreams, and definitely not about the misbehaving portraits. Afterwards, rinsing the tile to prevent any unsightly residue building up, he tried not to think about the fact that the past twenty-four hours had contained more wanking than he'd done in any month since he was a teenager.

Really, the only good thing about the morning was that the many meetings with lobbyists spanning the schedule would give him ample excuses to leave the infernal portraits in Hermione's office to their own highly immoral devices for much of the day.

When he'd left his office after getting his papers in order, Remus and Sirius had been sunbathing on a very small towel, hands intertwined, wearing very little clothing between them. In fact, Remus had been wearing all of the clothing; the only thing that shielded Sirius from the sun was the silly pink umbrella stuck in his drink, which clearly didn't count because it was an accessory for his beverage and not for him.

Percy scowled and cleared his throat disapprovingly, and Remus gave him a sympathetic look, but Sirius just flashed a lazy, arrogant smile that spoke volumes about how little he cared what Percy thought. Percy left in a huff - his authority hadn't been this shamelessly ignored since his time as a Prefect.

The whole situation was not to be suffered. Percy was at the pinnacle of his career, currently the most powerful man in wizarding government, and he was being chased out of his office because some vain, self-important portrait wanted to take in the sun without getting tan lines... probably for the benefit of his _paramour_, his very _male_ paramour.

Percy spent most of the morning meetings brooding on the injustice of the situation, and really far too little time pondering the repercussions of a lack of standardized floo network protocols.

It was only with extreme reluctance that Percy went back to the office for a brief he'd forgotten during a short break in his schedule. His trepidation turned out to be perfectly justified when his gaze accidentally fell upon the painting that he'd promised himself he wouldn't look at.

In spite of the large daubs of paint and the sketchy impressionist style of the painting, Percy could still make out far too many gratuitous details about what was going on in the background.

Percy could all-too-clearly see Black on his knees, fingers fisted in the dune grass, with Lupin kneeling between his splayed legs. Percy was horrified to note that the angle was such that very little was left to the imagination. He could actually _see_ Lupin slowly, languidly thrusting into the moaning man beneath him, and the way that Black angled his hips and arched back left little doubt that his cries were of pleasure, rather than pain.

Percy certainly didn't understand how that could possibly be the case. From what he could see, Lupin looked rather well-endowed and accommodating something of that girth _there_ didn't even seem physically possible, and if it was, certainly it had to _hurt_.

This purely academic curiosity about why Black could be whimpering and writhing in pleasure long before Lupin reached around and began slowly fisting his cock, had to be the absolute only reason why Percy didn't look away. He continued to watch, crushing the papers in his suddenly clammy hands, as Black, with a groan of "Oh, _Remus_!" came all over Lupin's hand in thick spurts, and as Lupin shuddered in the throes of his own release mere moments later.

It was only when Lupin pulled out, and Black turned over to sprawl on his back in the sand, with a muttered, "Fuck!", and Lupin collapsed on top of him in a tangle of sweaty limbs, and Black kissed him deeply and almost indolently, like absolutely nothing else in the world could possibly be half as important as consuming each other, that it occurred to Percy that he had just trespassed on a very intimate moment that he probably hadn't been meant to be privy to, other perversions notwithstanding.

For the nth time in two days, Percy staged a hasty retreat from the office that really should have been his.

While he grabbed the last necessary folder from his desk, he was mortified to overhear, "You know, I must love you rather a lot if I'm willing to get sand in my unmentionables for you."

As he closed the door, he thought he heard, "Moooony, is that an invitation to go have a shower? One track mind, you dirty old lecher!"

When Percy stumbled back into the conference room, shame-faced, the folder he'd somehow had the presence of mind to retrieve clutched awkwardly in front of his lap, he was mortified to find that he was a good nineteen minutes late, an absolutely unheard of experience. Percy managed to mumble an apology about how "something came up in his office requiring urgent attention", and then turned even more red.

As Percy bumbled through the rest of his meetings, he couldn't get the images from earlier, nor the sounds, out of his mind. He'd never even imagined something so dirty, and not just in the literal sense - though even assuming one wanted to do that sort of thing, who in their right mind would choose a beach when there was presumably a perfectly good if slightly squeaky bed available?

Of course he'd heard vague references to homosexuality in the form of insults, but it was more of a Muggle custom and certainly not at all the thing talked about in polite circles of the wizarding world, and Percy had always been very conscious of doing the proper thing. Percy hadn't ever even thought about two men together in a romantic way, if one could even call _that_ romance, and certainly not about the details and mechanics; now his brain appeared to be making up for lost time by tormenting him with a parade of thoughts exactly along those lines.

Thus, instead of listening to the discussions about the level of monitoring required for international potion ingredient trade, Percy found himself playing out horrifying scenarios of men doing completely inappropriate _things_ together, his stomach twisting with what absolutely had to be nausea and his skin prickling with what was surely revulsion. The distraction was surely the fault of the extraordinarily boring nature of the conference proceedings, Percy thought, conveniently ignoring that his senior thesis at Hogwarts had been on a very related topic.

After the last meeting had finally drawn to a close after five o'clock, Percy realized that the right thing would be to head back to his office for another couple of hours. If one wanted to be technical about it, it was Hermione's office, but it was his for the time being, and he deserved access to the files he needed without being disturbed every five minutes by the unnatural appetites of others, especially given that the unnatural appetites might possibly be catching.

Moreover, Professor Lupin was his old teacher, and Sirius Black had been a friend of his parents, besides which, they were both unmistakably male, and that last part was enough reason alone to explain why he, Percy, did _not_ want to see them en deshabilles, much less in flagrante delicto.

Except that he very much did.

Particularly traitorous parts that didn't really appear convinced by the logical arguments offered by his head.

On his way back to the first floor, Percy decided that he deserved to take off early, because the strain of the job was obviously starting to wear on his judgment. As he exited the lobby, Percy additionally decided to walk home, rather than apparate, in order to clear his mind.

Dinner that night consisted of reheated leftovers from a state function he'd escorted Hermione to over the weekend.

Of course Ron couldn't be arsed to go, insisting that he hated dress robes only marginally less than he hated politicians. Of course Hermione had hit him upon hearing this, and of course Ron had swiftly backtracked, "Except for my lovely wife who is the most wonderful witch ever, ow! when she isn't being abusive! Hermione, mind the baby!" and of course, one of their predictable, nauseating rounds of making up had followed, and Percy could see exactly how they came to be parents to five children if that was how they resolved their frequent fights.

In the end, Percy had, as always, stepped in for his brother, and the dinner had been fascinating. Hermione was exceedingly clever and much more shrewd a politician than one would guess from her somewhat bossy, scholarly demeanor, and Percy was often surprised by how much he really enjoyed working with her. In fact, his mum had once expressed some dismay that Hermione had ended up with Ron, when she felt Percy and Hermione had ever so much more in common, but really, that was ridiculous, because Hermione was like the sibling he should have had.

Indeed, it was even more ridiculous that he should need anyone, and he would continue to avoid his mother's attempts to pair him off, because really, this wasn't Noah's Ark and there was no requirement for her children to come in matched sets.

After all, he had a fabulously exciting career and he was important, and surely that was better than finding someone to cop off with on a regular basis.

And if he did want to cop off with someone, he would want to cop off with a beautiful and exceedingly female someone who would make a proper and sophisticated wife, who would cling to his arm during Ministry dinners and laugh adoringly in all the right places at his jokes, if that was even possible.

He certainly wasn't in the market for a crass, boorish catamite who would defile him on a beach and eat food off him and do a million other perverted things that Percy really didn't want to think about, no matter how much he found himself contemplating them lately.

As Percy ate the reheated leftovers at an immaculately set table for one, he resolved firmly that he would absolutely not allow himself to be distracted from his duties again by whatever bizarre second adolescence he was experiencing. Really, it had been awful enough actually being seventeen at one point, and he had no particular desire to revisit that state more than absolutely necessary.

Midway through carefully chewing a forkful of vegetables, Percy had an epiphany, and nearly choked on the potent combination of profound insight and mushy peas.

There must be some kind of evil magic at the root of all his completely unwarranted urges.

Percy sighed with relief. It made perfect sense. He, Percy Weasley, was resoundingly heterosexual, of course, and he'd just had the bad luck to succumb to the odd malicious hex or curse. Perfectly reasonable given his station: he was certainly important enough to be a target.

Perhaps they'd even sent the portraits to the painting in his office to give him impure ideas! Percy's nostrils flared with indignation at the thought of such despicable foul play.

It was an election year, after all, and there was nothing so low that the opposition wouldn't stoop to it in the hopes of creating an advantage. Well, Percy wouldn't give them the scandal they wanted, because he knew _exactly_ what they were on about! They clearly didn't know who they were dealing with, because it would take something substantially more insidious to get past his iron-clad defenses and break his own manly resolve.

Percy dropped his fork, got up and then struggled briefly with the urge to do the washing up. Several tormented moments later, Percy emerged victorious after appeasing his tidy nature with a vow to clean up later. Percy ran to his library, where he spent the evening looking up possible spells in his extensive personal collection of reference books, which were of course alphabetically arranged by subject.

Several hours past midnight, having found a long list of potential spells, and an even longer list of hexes, curses, charms and potions capable of inducing love, but none that specifically mentioned making a man think that recreationally sticking things up his bum might be a good idea, Percy slammed the last book closed.

He almost suspected Fred and George's handiwork, as it was clearly a very devious and tricky twist on the usual love potion. However, he would get at the root of the problem forthwith.

But until then, he had a full calendar, and indeed, attempting to be positive, Percy thought that the ceremonial opening of the Quidditch game tomorrow afternoon would be a welcome distraction. Unlike his siblings, he didn't go in for sports, and he'd expected it to be nice and boring in the hopes of maybe subduing this evil by sheer dullness.


	4. Chapter 4

After doing the dishes from last night _in the morning_, which quite threw off his entire routine, Percy found himself heading to work during the actual rush hour, if the first wave of it. He was really quite appalled at just how many ridiculously attractive men there were, and how tightly the current fashions dictated robes be worn. He had no idea how it had ever escaped his notice before, but then, Percy supposed he had the spell to thank for heightening his awareness.

As Percy passed an advertisement for broom polish, wherein a square-jawed young wizard suggestively stroked a Cleansweep 12, held at an angle that practically insisted that the viewer's eyes be drawn to entirely gratuitous bulges in the man's unrealistically clingy uniform, it occurred to Percy that it was quite possible that the entire world was conspiring to reduce him to a slavering pile of lust.

He should have (and had!) outgrown such grotesque hormonal displays at half his current age, making this entirely beneath him as well as completely ridiculous.

Well, at least now he knew exactly _why_ on earth his hormones had, after decades of being properly subdued, decided to wake up and have a raucous party. Percy took comfort in the fact that he now understood, however abstractly, the source of the untoward urges that were tormenting him at every juncture... as much comfort as he could take while hobbling down the street with an unwanted almost-erection. Not that this knowledge made his fixations any more appropriate, but knowing that they definitely weren't _his_ perverse feelings was reassuring.

Arriving at Hermione's office, Percy was extremely happy to note that Black and Lupin were keeping their own perverse feelings and respective naughty bits to themselves, which of course meant that they were still sleeping in the painting. They appeared to have fallen asleep on a picnic blanket outside while stargazing, if the small telescope kicked over at their feet was any indication. The fire they'd set had burned itself out during the night, so they were curled up together in a rather confusing ball of arms, legs and blankets, presumably huddled together for warmth, Percy supposed, because honestly, who would choose voluntarily to sleep with their face mashed in someone else's armpit?

There was also a snuffling sort of snoring, but Percy knew better than to complain of that, because really, literally sleeping together was innocuous given the other things he'd heard the portraits doing, and definitely compared to the things he'd _seen_ the portraits doing, although it really didn't do at ALL to think about that.

Percy sent a discreet inquiry to the twins to inquire if they would send him their latest circular, just in case his suspicions about WWW products being involved were on the right track, and then sent away for several library encyclopedias and manuals on love spells and sexual deviance, though no books overlapped both categories.

Several hours of paperwork were only periodically interrupted by homosexual thoughts planted in his brain. Just as Percy was putting finishing touches on a press release about House Elf voting rights, the owl from the central branch of the London Library came back with his requests. He was a bit taken aback to find that one of the books was some kind of Muggle how-to manual for gay sex.

Percy hastily put _that_ book far away on the table, upside down for good measure. He touched it as briefly as possible as though it was contagious, although Percy admitted that it might possibly be a bit late for that. Still, he firmly insisted to himself that he would exhaust all other possibilities first, and the perverted sex-book was a last resort.

However, after fifteen minutes of fidgeting with "On Finding Felicitous Harmony in Marriage, or, A Gentlewitch's Guide to Amorous Potions: When Nay Can Be Made to Mean Maybe and Maybe Will Become Definitely Yea!", a volume which clearly predated the international ban against love inducements passed by Prudence Goodweather, Percy still hadn't been able to get past the third paragraph of the prologue. He kept thinking of what he'd seen yesterday and how the mechanics of _that_ worked out, so Percy finally gave in, cast a series of complex locking charms on the door, and gingerly picked up the book from the far corner of his desk.

He pulled a dust-jacket off of one of his most boring Arithmancy references and put it onto the Muggle book, then positioned himself so that the inside of the book would not be visible from the vantage point of the painting, just to be safe.

When the alarm rang notifying him of his upcoming portkey to the Quidditch pitch, Percy was stunned to find that over two hours had passed, and he had made it through to the appendix section on bondage and choice of an appropriate safe-word.

He would do more research and try to exorcise this madness tomorrow, but for the time being, Percy supposed he might as well get on with his day as best he could.

Percy snuck out to catch his portkey, relieved and grateful that he'd finally had a nice, quiet uneventful morning, which he hoped would set the tone for a nice, quiet, uneventful afternoon at the Quidditch match.

Percy had arrived early at the stadium, in part because he didn't want to continue to push his luck that Lupin and Black would stay asleep, and in part because Percy did like being early. It was rather comforting to exercise control over even something as prosaic as his schedule, especially given that he had recently ceded all control over his nether regions.

While waiting for the crowds to gather and the players to assemble, he sat in the box of honor reserved for officials, observing the preparations of Puddlemere United and the team they were slated to play, the Holyhead Harpies.

Percy was quite surprised to see Oliver Wood stalking about on the pitch, because he hadn't seen Oliver for at least ten years, and even then, it had been because his family had dragged him to a Quidditch game. He knew Fred and George still kept up with their old team captain, but he and Oliver hardly moved in the same social circles.

However unexpected seeing Oliver was, Percy was vastly more surprised to see that his erstwhile roommate was wearing dark green robes with a golden talon on them, indicating he was with the Holyhead Harpies.

Even Percy knew that the Harpies were an all-witch team, thanks to Ginny's incessant harping on about them... and yet, Oliver still appeared quite overwhelmingly male, in addition to being as obsessed with Quidditch as ever.

Indeed, Oliver looked quite surprisingly like he once had. Oliver had been rather burly during school, and Percy would have expected him to go to seed and have a big paunch, but he really just continued to looked solid and sturdy in a reassuring way, like he couldn't be easily broken. Oliver's brown hair _was_ starting to go grey at the temples, but still thick and flopping every which way just like Percy remembered from Hogwarts, when Oliver would unconsciously pull and tug at his hair while he was working out Quidditch plays. Oliver's nose did look more crooked than when Percy had last seen it, like it had indeed been broken too many times, but it made him look rakish, and Percy admitted that he could definitely see how women might find Oliver fit (not that he really saw it himself in the slightest - and if he did, it was definitely the fault of whatever spell he was under).

Watching players and game officials come and go, Percy eventually solved the mystery: apparently the Harpies' gender bias didn't extend to their management. While the other coach besides Oliver appeared to be female, though perhaps part-giant, and the manager was a wizened, frail witch whose age must be well above one hundred, the team also employed a towel-boy and several other men in positions that appeared to extend to fetching balls, providing medical assistance, and, Percy was almost amused to note, cheerleading.

Percy had no idea why the confirmation that Oliver Wood had not undergone a sex change should be such a profound relief to him.

Percy wasn't sure whether he should wave and greet Oliver, or whether he should just ignore their former association. They'd never really been friends during school. Although they'd roomed together for seven years, it had been more of a coexistence with Oliver in tight orbit around Quidditch, Percy around schoolwork and being Prefect and then Head Boy. At Hogwarts, Percy had never, ever given friendship with Oliver a serious thought, because Oliver had represented all of those things that he generally held in disdain - athleticism, popularity, easy social graces - and also because he didn't think he stood a chance.

Nevertheless, Percy had to admire the zeal with which Oliver had dedicated his life to something, even if the target of his fixation was something so patently stupid.

Of course, this admiration in no way whatsoever extended to the way that Oliver's rear filled out his Quidditch robes.

Percy had just decided for a comfortable track of ignoring his classmate and all his inexplicable appeal, when the referee headed over and began discussing Percy's role in the proceedings, which would extend to making a brief speech to welcome everybody (neatly written and located in Percy's chest pocket, if he should need to refer to it at any point), and then at the end of the speech releasing the Bludgers, Quaffle and golden Snitch.

Percy was holding up his end of the conversation perfectly well, until Oliver trotted over and shouted, "Percy! Percy Weasley!" He strode closer, forming a blatant invasion of personal space, and Percy was just about to extend his hand for a greeting when Oliver declared, "Hullo, it's been ages!" and then seized Percy in an entirely unprecedented hug.

Percy's body froze at finding itself suddenly and completely enveloped in brawny former Quidditch star, and his brain completely stopped functioning altogether. The embrace was anything but half-hearted, and Percy could feel hard planes of muscle squashed up against his entire body in the most intimate way. A hand firmly pressed against the small of his back cut off his means for escape, if Percy could even have summoned the willpower to want to step away, and another arm slung around his shoulders like it belonged there. A sweeping sort of heat flared out from all the many points of contact, completely flooding Percy as he breathed in the vaguely familiar, musky smell of Oliver.

Then, as suddenly as it began, Oliver released Percy, leaving him feeling strangely bereft as well as gasping - surely from the shocking impropriety of the embrace. From a respectable distance away, Oliver continued talking casually like he had not just permanently rearranged Percy's heart-rate and brain function: "Really, Percy, you look _great_! How the hell have you been?"

Percy made a noise that sounded something like, "Nnngh!", blinked rapidly, then adjusted his glasses in what he knew was a nervous tic, and tried again, "Wel1, quite well, really!" This was in fact true when he wasn't being suddenly and unexpectedly groped by former classmates.

Oliver continued, "I hear you're Acting Minister now, what with Hermione having the baby. Can't say I'm surprised in the slightest to find you in charge of the Government... and congratulations on being an uncle again!"

Percy smiled back foolishly and tried to remember how to form complete sentences.

The referee coughed, and said, "Look, I'm quite sure you can catch up once the game begins, you're in the same box! In the meantime, Mr. Wood, oughtn't you to be coaching your team while I instruct Minister Weasley in the ball apparatus?"

Oliver flashed Percy a dimpled smile, and something twisted in Percy's stomach - Percy thought it very well might be the remnants of his sanity, or perhaps his magically-tattered heterosexuality. "Quite right!" said Oliver. "Sorry, Percy! I've got a bunch of stroppy Amazons to yell into playing nice with each other, but I'll be back!" he waved, and stormed off to focus his blur of energy and intent on the women on his team.

The rest of Percy's instructions turned out to be quite straightforward, really, though it took the referee rather a long time to euphemistically get at _Open the lid and get the hell out of the way!_, which was the sort of thing Percy really had quite a lot of experience with, given who his siblings were.

Subsequently, Percy just hunkered down in his seat and repeated his new mantra of "Nothing to worry about, it's just a bit of magical subterfuge!" and tried hard to look like he was more interested in the gathering cheerleaders from Puddlemere, who were, without exception, female, perky and very buxom.

After focusing on something so absurd and altogether unerotic as female breasts for several minutes, Percy had pulled himself together enough to deliver his speech without stammering, and the simultaneous Bludger-Quaffle-Snitch release also went quite well, although Percy had the inopportune thought that Oliver, scrambling into his seat at the last minute, was really in an ideal angle to check out his bum while Percy was bending over. The resulting imagery left him about as stunned as if he had actually been hit by a Bludger.

Oliver was, of course, sitting next to him, ostensibly so that they could catch up but, as Percy began to realize the moment he took his seat, which was sadly not clearly demarcated from Oliver's seat by anything other than an ideological boundary on the bench, the ultimate consequence of the seating arrangement was really so that Oliver could continue exuding that horrifically appealing smell and wreak havoc on Percy's self-control.

Oliver seemed blissfully and completely unaware of any theoretical boundary on the bench between them. Having edged over as far to the wall as he could, Percy was still very much _next to_ Oliver, with a degree of proximity that probably merited invention of a whole new pronoun. Percy resigned himself to his seating assignment with renewed understanding for the old saying, "between a cauldron and a hard place," especially if one took "hard place" to refer to the parts of Percy that were mercifully concealed by draping, semi-formal robes that were thankfully, a bit looser than current fashions dictated.

Percy, who _always_ knew the right thing to say, because it was what he _did_, suddenly found himself unable to keep up anything resembling an intelligent conversation if he'd tried.

Fortunately, he didn't have to try. Oliver was raptly absorbed in shouting a steady stream of insults and commentary at his team members: "Bronwyn, I've seen my GRANDMOTHER move faster than that! For that matter, I've seen YOU move faster than that to queue up for exclusive handbag sales! Chop, chop!"

So really, conversation rendered unnecessary, all Percy had to do was not dwell on the way that Oliver's shoulder was firmly wedged against his, and try not to lose his sanity, or his hearing, in the process.

"FOUL! Come on, Referee, that was a BLATANT violation of the rules! Blatching isn't just a bedroom technique practiced by two-bit courtesans like your MOTHER!"

Percy thought that it was a good thing that he didn't really care much for Quidditch, because what with the sudden bout of gayness, he really wouldn't be able to pay much attention to the game with Oliver pressed up against him.

From his vantage point of far-too-close-to-sitting-on-Percy's-lap, Oliver appeared to be having no difficulty following the frantic pace of the game. A rare compliment of "Bloody GREAT save, Violet!" was followed quickly by "Gwen, you're the CHASER, so CHASE, you silly TROLLOP, like you're pursuing one of your boytoys! Do I need to paint a COCK on the bloody Quaffle for you? And someone cover her! Angharad, STOP them, this is no time to be a lady; I want to see BLOOD if they try that again! Violent, copious HEMORRHAGING!"

Percy was too busy being mortified even to be disturbed by the fact that his bizarre sexual fixation appeared to be completely undeterred by the object of his misplaced affections gleefully carrying on about hemorrhaging like it was fun for the entire family to enjoy. Percy told himself that his imperviousness to Oliver's blood-thirst was just another piece of evidence that the itchy unbridled want coursing through him was planted externally.

Just as Percy had set up a perfectly good system of ignoring Oliver and the Oliver-smell that surrounded Percy like a clingy spinster aunt, and was beginning to think that he might be able to handle this without causing a major scene, Oliver jumped up to shout: "You can do better, Helga, pretend it's your ex-boyfriend's HEAD you're hitting!" Oliver stood hanging over the railing, as he continued, "Remember your FAVORITE teapot, the one with the DAISIES, and how he took it JUST so you couldn't have it? What has he done to deserve such gentle love taps? He doesn't even LIKE tea!" Oliver was waving his arms above his head with abandon. "And he NEVER got you flowers that he didn't need for potions-making, either! HIT that bloody Bludger like you know the two-timing BASTARD deserves it!"

Percy was just enjoying the restored respiratory functioning that the lack of contact to Oliver Wood brought with it, when Oliver threw himself back down onto the bench, with a shouted "YES, beautiful, THAT'S what I'm talking about! I'll buy you a round when this is done!"

However, when he returned to his seat, Oliver had, so casually it just had to be an accident, flung an arm around Percy's shoulders, so now their entire sides were in contact. Percy had been previously unaware at just how much surface area the skin on his thigh constituted, but now his entire body was burning with awareness and Oliver's hand was actually absently stroking the skin on Percy's shoulder where his robes had slipped slightly. Oliver didn't appear to notice any of this, because he was busy shouting at his offensive team, "HUSTLE, Justine, and NO, I don't mean show them some leg, you silly NINNY!"

Breathing, which Percy had been doing unassisted for the past forty-two years without much of a second thought, suddenly became difficult, requiring conscious effort. Percy oscillated between reminding himself to breathe and reminding himself to ignore the body heat transferred between him and Oliver, but it was quite impossible when all of that extra body heat was pooling low in his groin, because Oliver was practically a furnace, and it absolutely didn't help that every breath was inhaling that smell which surely had to contain some kind of poofy pheromones that he was now inexplicably susceptible to. Percy was quite sure that such a combined molecular and thermodynamic assault was _not_ playing fair because really, how could he be expected to resist the lure of the dark magic under such circumstances?

"That's more LIKE it, Enid, fight back and don't let them foul you!" Percy had no idea that platonic male bonding rituals over sports involved quite so much touching, and if so, he was quite glad that he generally avoided them.

Just when Percy thought he was going to completely mad, because the spell would certainly make him do something incredibly inappropriate if all of this groping and shoulder-clasping and full body contact continued, the rest of the crowd erupted in pandemonium of the sort that Oliver had been sustaining all along, which Percy took to mean the Snitch had been caught. By the way that Oliver hauled him to his feet, spun him about and squeezed him in an unexpected bone-crushing hug for the second time that afternoon, Percy suspected it had been the Harpy's Seeker who had ended the game.

From a safe distance away he offered "Congratulations!", if rather stiffly, not quite sure what tone to take to someone whose alarming tendencies to embrace were rather closer to second base than Percy had come in a long time.

Oliver beamed at him, looking slightly manic. "Bloody ace, that Enid is! Catching the snitch after fifteen minutes! Absolutely the best thing to do against a scoring powerhouse like Puddlemere... and I should know, I played reserve keeper for them when I first started out."

"Well, it's been lovely!" said Percy, which he supposed might actually be true if by 'lovely' he meant 'maddening and quite possibly making me want to rip your clothing off'. "But I do think I'd better be going."

"Oho, no you don't!" said Oliver. "You simply have got to go out with the team afterwards!"

"But I really must get to work..."

"Oh, bollocks!" said Oliver, cheerily. "I bet you spent at least five hours at work this morning before you came to the match, didn't you? And I'm quite sure you haven't even had lunch yet, either."

He correctly interpreted Percy's silence as agreement to both statements.

"Ha, I thought so! You always did work much too hard."

Percy made a vague noise of denial, relieved that if nothing else, holding up a conversation with Oliver didn't appear to require him to do much actual talking, because he was still feeling the after-effects of that last exuberant embrace and just standing up was requiring most of his faculties.

"Besides, we haven't even had the chance to talk, yet. Sorry about that, by the way - I know I get a bit overzealous at matches. My ex-bo-- I mean, the last person I was seeing, couldn't stand it."

"Well, I suppose lunch couldn't hurt."

Before Percy quite registered what was happening, he was being dragged by his arm into a throng of embracing, whooping, female Quidditch players.

Percy was successively squashed to seven sets of Holyhead Harpy bosoms, including the ample endowments of Justine Vanderbilt, who George swore was the absolute most perfect creature ever to alight on a broomstick, and whose pull-out poster from a _Bewitching!_ spread had a place of honor in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Then since the excitement appeared contagious, most of the reserve players, less sweaty but equally joyful perhaps because the brevity of the game had given them the opportunity to escape Oliver's censure, had a go at squeezing the air out of Percy as well.

None of the soft, female assaults felt nearly as indecorous as being embraced by Oliver earlier, which Percy felt was almost certainly a consequence of becoming acclimated to people who had no concept of proper personal space.

Percy was introduced to the team simply as "my housemate from back at Hogwarts, Percy!" and shuffled along to a corner pub.

The table was far too small for their party, which counted 22 when one included the manager, the other coach, the reserve string, and the other men: the towel-boy and three cheerleaders, all of whom seemed to be vying for the affections of Gwen. Consequently, Percy found himself veritably sandwiched between Oliver and beater Angharad Griffiths, who Oliver introduced as being the daughter of _the_ Glynnis Griffiths: Percy nodded like he knew what they were on about, a practice he was all too familiar with from fundraising dinners. But Angharad, a stout woman with green streaks in her hair dyed to match her uniform, seemed pleasant enough on her own terms, though quite unlike the sort encountered at political fundraisers.

As drinks started flowing, the screaming began to die down to a mere shrieking hubbub.

The disconcerting warmth of Oliver's hip and shoulder was once again pressed into Percy, albeit on the other side this time. If nothing else, Percy supposed it was proper that the assault on his dignity was at least symmetrical. There was really nothing untoward about the way Percy shifted back against him, and definitely not a result of him craving the body contact from earlier like a potent drug, because it was really very crowded, and while Angharad seemed like a lovely girl, Percy certainly didn't want her to feel that her modesty was being compromised.

Unfortunately, all of Oliver's disconcerting attention was now focused on Percy, rather than his team members, whose decibel-levels were now actually permitting conversation. "So, Percy, tell me about what you've been up to all this time?"

Percy smiled weakly. "Uhm," he said, intelligently. "There's really not much to tell."

"Nonsense! Say, are you still keeping up with your collection of historically important expired portkeys??"

Percy didn't know whether to be more surprised that someone had known about his collection, when he thought he'd kept his hobby quite secret, or that Oliver remembered details about him from more than 20 years ago.

"Yes, actually, though I don't really have much time to devote to hunting down portkeys anymore. How did you even remember? That was decades ago, literally."

Oliver looked a bit sheepish. "You know, I've since discovered a bit of an amateur interest in history as well."

Percy tried valiantly to hide his surprise, because it really wasn't very flattering. "Err, how?" he finally said, recalling some very vivid memories of Oliver snoring loudly through History of Magic on the desk behind him.

"It took me by total surprise, so I'm not blaming you for looking so shocked, but it turns out that when it's not being forced down my throat by the most boring professor ever to haunt the halls of Hogwarts, I suddenly found myself really interested in the history of the places we traveled in, back when I played internationally."

"Oh," said Percy, still flabbergasted. "Well yes, it's not all Goblin wars and peace treaties, is it?"

"It probably won't surprise you that my interest is the history and development of Quidditch, but it's really fascinating poking about through archives and putting all the pieces together."

Percy had never been quite so happy about having misjudged someone before. "Oh, absolutely!"

"I was actually thinking of writing a book about the history of Quidditch, actually, if I could take off the time to travel sometime. _Quidditch through the Ages_ really poses many more questions than it answers, and there hasn't really been anything substantial published in the field since."

"That's always been my dream, too - traveling, doing researching and writing, I mean, not the Quidditch part of course. Obviously I can't get away right now, not with the government being the way it is, but someday when the time is right..." Percy trailed off, and there was a slightly awkward moment in which he and Oliver smiled foolishly at each other.

"Really, though - while the rest of us are watching history, you are _making_ it," said Oliver. "Fantastic, really, though I always knew you would. How's the job working out for you?"

Percy started to describe the latest changes to the political platform, and Oliver listened, looking genuinely interested, not with the glassy blank stares that the non-Hermione members of his family got.

Suddenly Helga interrupted the conversation, reminding Percy very suddenly that other people did exist in the world, and indeed, that they were all squished together at a very small table. "So, I understand you're currently taking over for Minister Weasley-Granger?" She sipped at the martini Oliver had promised her.

"Yes, that's right, for a month of maternity leave."

Across from them, Justine had been engaged in conversation about the game with a chaser from the second-string.

Now, as Violet from the other end of the table cooed something about the baby being absolutely adorable, Justine fell silent with calculating, narrowed eyes. It was really strange seeing Justine in clothing, given how often Percy saw her photo wearing only Quidditch gloves, a broomstick and a strategically placed Quaffle, in Fred and George's shop.

Gwen looked up, plastered between two brawny if slightly vapid-looking men, "You tell her I think it's fantastic, finally having a witch for Minister."

Helga added, "And good for you for supporting her time off. More understanding policies for family leave and I'm sure most fields would be less wizard-dominated."

Justine ignored this talk of politics, and batted her eyelashes. "Really, Percy? You're Acting Minister? I had no _idea_ that such an important man would be opening our silly little game!"

Helga snorted. "You must not be following news much," she said, with thinly veiled condescension.

"Oh heavens, I suppose I don't," Justine simpered. "I'm just so very busy, what with modeling on the side, especially now that I've started modeling lingerie as well."

Helga rolled her eyes, and Angharad stifled what might have become a derisive giggle if Oliver had not shot her a warning glance.

Justine continued with practiced sweetness: "I suppose _some people_ might have nothing better to do than scour the paper while they moon over their exes."

Helga glared. Justine haughtily fluffed her hair, then turned to Percy, and said, "_I_ prefer to be written about, rather than read about others. But I'm sure you know exactly what that's like, being the object of so much attention."

"Err," said Percy, profoundly uncomfortable. Justine was looking at him like other people might regard a particularly delicious treat from Honeyduke's, although Justine didn't look much like she ate sweets. Next to him, he could feel Oliver shifting to put his arm around the back of Percy's seat.

"Reporters must follow you about _all_ the time!" Justine cooed, sounding delighted. "Not to mention private citizens seeking a bit of personal time with such a man of distinction!"

"No, not really," said Percy.

"So modest!" squealed Justine. "I can sympathize with the poor dears, though, because I just can't help but feel a little bit _excited_ by all of that importance and wealth myself!" Justine giggled, a maneuver clearly designed to draw as much attention as possible to her jiggling bosom. "If you know what I mean!"

Oliver coughed convulsively next to Percy.

"I'm quite sure I don't!" insisted Percy, inching a bit closer to Oliver.

"Oh, heavens!" breathed Justine, stroking idly from her neck to the swell of her cleavage. "If you don't mind my being frank, and you must excuse me for having such an unladylike moment, normally I would never be so brash, it's just such a turn-on!"

"Justine!" growled Oliver. "I'm sure he _does_ mind!"

Justine just leered at Percy.

Percy abruptly excused himself to go to the bathroom. Angharad stood up to let him out, then followed him.

"Percy, a word?"

"Oh, certainly," said Percy. "I didn't so much need to actually use the washroom as extricate myself from... that."

Angharad nodded and looked at him assessingly. "Look, I don't mean to be presumptuous, because I really don't know exactly what your intentions are."

"Intentions?"

"With Oliver."

"Err," said Percy. He had no idea that his newfound proclivities were so obvious, if that was what she was getting at.

"Just treat him kindly. He might not look it, because you know, it's Oliver, but the awful little twink who waltzed into his life and then ran off with the seeker for the Wimbourne Wasps, really broke his heart. Probably worse off than Helga, honestly, and that's saying a lot."

"Oh," said Percy with schooled indifference, trying to sound like this was not all news to him.

"I'm really just telling you not to break his heart, too, because otherwise you'll have a good many Harpies on the warpath after your head."

Percy nodded earnestly, trying not to let on how much his head was about to explode.

"Oh, no, I've embarrassed you. I don't mean to be so such a raging bitch, truly. It's just I can tell Oliver really likes you, especially if you're _that_ friend from school... and he really does so deserve a nice bloke who actually cares about him for a change." Angharad smiled at him, punched him in the shoulder in what was probably meant to be a friendly way, and headed to the women's loo.

Percy made a strangled noise and stared blankly at the wallpaper for a few moments, rubbing his shoulder, which would surely bruise in the worst way.

Oliver insisted on escorting Percy back to work, perhaps to prevent Justine from doing the same. Percy grabbed his arm and they side-along apparated to the vestibule of the Ministry, where Percy's held on to Oliver's arm perhaps just a second too long before realizing what he was doing.

"Look, I'm so sorry about that," begun Oliver, as they headed upstairs. "I know Justine can be an absolute _menace_. If she weren't such a brilliant chaser then none of us would even tolerate her nonsense, really, but it's hardly fair to expect you to put up with being pursued like a Quaffle."

"Oh, no, it's quite alright," said Percy.

"Not that you look at all like a Quaffle, the similarities end with being pursued by Justine, really."

"Really, no, it'd almost be flattering if it weren't so weird. My brothers worship her."

"I suppose you're used to it, though," said Oliver. "You must get that sort of thing all the time."

"What, that I look like a Quaffle?" said Percy.

Oliver smiled as he held open the door for Percy. "No. I can't think of anything more ridiculous. Justine would be lucky to have you."

Percy smiled ruefully. "I don't think Justine is really my type," he said.

"I suppose there is someone else?" said Oliver.

"Someone?" Percy was confused.

"Well, not a Mrs. Weasley or I'd have heard about it in the paper," said Oliver. "But a girlfriend? God, that term is so ridiculous at our age. Someone special that you're seeing? That's a bit corny, too, I'm afraid... I mean, of course they'd have to be special for you to be interested."

"Er, actually, no," said Percy.

"No, they're not special?"

"No, there isn't anyone. At the moment, you know, work keeping me busy." Percy tried to sound like the situation wasn't that there hadn't been someone ever, special or not. "And you?"

"I thought there was someone, but it didn't work out." Oliver sighed. "In fact, the magnitude of how much it didn't work out is underserved by that statement. It was an enormous disaster. Kind of like the dating equivalent of playing Creaothceann with your mother's best trifle bowl and your father's bowling balls."

Percy laughed, trying to ignore the surge of happiness that Oliver's answer had evoked. There was really no reason for him to be so interested in Oliver's availability. "Well, we've got that much in common, then."

They'd reached his office door, and Percy gave a moment of prayer up to whatever deities controlled misbehaving portraits that this would be one of those rare times that Black and Lupin weren't doing something completely inappropriate in their painting.

Percy eased the door open and peered into the room nervously, but the beach painting, mercifully, was quiet, though it looked like Lupin and Black were still in residence at the cottage, judging by the motorbike parked out front.

"Look, since we're both unattached right now, I was wondering if you might like to get together sometime for dinner?" Percy started to stammer, but Oliver continued. "I know you're probably insanely busy what with running the Ministry, but you know, even Ministers of Magic need to eat, right?"

Percy smiled ruefully. "Am I being given much of a choice in the matter?"

Oliver grinned back. "No. You might waste away into nothingness and the wizarding world would never forgive me for failing to act when I had the chance. Would Wednesday work for you?"

Percy flipped open his appointment book. "No, sorry, goblin banker's society meeting. Tuesday okay?"

"Mmn, Quidditch player negotiations, might run late. And Monday's no good, either - we've got a strategy dissection of today's game, and we'll be there all night given how very badly the offense bollixed it up today. Next Thursday?"

"No, that won't work, staff meeting..." Percy shuffled through his appointment book. "Wait, I had an dinner appointment with the treasurer of the Ministry from Tunisia, but it got cancelled this morning, something about a malfunctioning carpet rolling up mid-flight and trapping his wife, who's still being treated for rug burn. So, what about tomorrow?"

"Sold!" said Oliver.

"Great," said Percy. He looked at Oliver's feet and tried not to find them ridiculously attractive. They were _feet_, and what's more, they were encased in unattractive athletic shoes. Spell or no, dwelling on their size and what the implications were was completely beyond the realm of the sort of speculation that Percy should allow himself to indulge in.

"Well, then, I suppose I'd better head on back to work," said Percy. "Lots to do, you know."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Oliver. "I'd really love it if you could tell me about it, over dinner. I promise I'll shut up long enough, honestly. Do you like Indian food? I was thinking of Curry A Torch, perhaps, if you did?"

The only thing Percy knew of Curry A Torch was that Penny had waxed on and on about how very romantic the atmosphere was with the draped off compartments, the cushions to recline on, the belly dancers and the sensuality of eating with one's fingers. Percy thought that Seymour might possibly have proposed to Penelope there, actually. All in all, Percy had no idea why he said, "Oh, yes, of course!" He didn't like spicy food, and it wasn't like he _wanted_ to be cozily cordoned off with a confirmed homosexual, no matter how enjoyable the company or how surprising the hidden depths of said confirmed homosexual might be.

"Great," said Oliver, crumpling his robes in his fingers. "I've wasted enough of your time already, I really ought to let you get back to running the country, shouldn't I? But it's been really, really fantastic seeing you again, and I _am_ looking forward to tomorrow." Oliver smiled and headed towards the door. "Really!"

He'd almost reached the door when Percy was rather taken aback to find himself talking without really having meant to do so. "Uh, wait, I was wondering, ah, if this is, strictly speaking you know, the sort of thing that might possibly be classified as a date?"

Oliver froze, hand on the doorknob and said, very quietly, "Do you, well, do you want it to be?"

This was the part of the conversation where Percy was supposed to make a heartfelt avowal of his purely platonic intentions and set the record straight in more ways than one.

He had no idea why he found himself incrementally, slightly nodding and he had even less of a concept of how he came to be crushed against his desk and Oliver.

They hovered there, suspended on the brink of something momentous, for several seconds or possibly centuries while Percy's brain screamed at him all the ways in which this was a horrible mistake, and his body stubbornly resisted all instructions to push Oliver away, because how could he when Oliver's soft brown eyes were looking at him almost reverentially and all of the places where Oliver was touching him had suddenly become one big erogenous zone?

Then Percy blinked rapidly behind his horn rim glasses and instead of disappearing altogether like the daydream that Percy was half expecting this to be, Oliver leaned in even closer, touching Percy in so many places that Percy wasn't sure he'd ever be able to sort out whose molecules belonged to whom, and kissed him.

All of the prickly, uncomfortable heat that Percy had been carrying about all afternoon exploded, taking out Percy's better judgment with it. In the onslaught of Oliver's lips sliding slowly, softly against his own Percy suddenly couldn't remember how he had ever thought that this was anything other than a brilliant idea, and when Oliver trailed a tongue along the seam of his lips and then gently bit his lower lip, Percy's brain declared glorious defeat and disengaged completely.

Percy's world had completely shrunk down to returning the open-mouthed, deepening kiss when he was brought rudely back to reality by a polite but insistent knocking on the door.

For several panicked moments, Percy couldn't figure out why Oliver hadn't moved away, before he realized that Oliver couldn't possibly be expected to step a decorous distance away if he was still clinging to Oliver. Percy removed his arm from around Oliver's neck, then his other arm from Oliver's bicep, and then with mounting embarrassment unwrapped his right leg from the hollow of Oliver's knee.

Only then was Oliver finally able to pull away, the space between them growing to a respectable distance for the first time all afternoon. Instead of the relief Percy should have felt, he was flooded by what felt curiously like regret.

Percy tugged ineffectually at his robes to neaten them, because he still had control over _that_ being straight. He then wiped his mouth, and wasn't nearly as disgusted by not knowing whose saliva it was as he probably should have been. Having restored as much decency as was possible given that he still had this inexplicable urge to fling himself back into Oliver's arms and attach himself like a Niffler, he called, "Come in!" He actually succeeded in speaking clearly and loudly enough to be heard on the second try.

He was sure that by the magnitude of his blush the secretary of the Department of Mysteries would be able to tell exactly what indiscretions had just transpired, but she just apologized for interrupting and handed Percy a stack of very urgent correspondence, and told Percy that he had a floo call due in several minutes.

Oliver excused himself with a slightly pink cheeked "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then!" and Percy was quite proud of the fact that his voice didn't waver when he returned the farewell greeting. For the sake of the secretary, he tried not to look at Oliver's arse as he strode briskly away.

Percy bid the caller farewell after the least coherent conversation he had ever carried on, and slumped in his chair.

Just when he thought his day couldn't get any worse, he heard, "Hallo-o-o, poncy young Percy! How is his poofiness today?!" from the painting.

"Sirius, honestly, hush!" said Remus, whom Percy was beginning to label as 'The Sensible, Kinder, or at least just Less Sadistic, One.'

"Look, you were the one who was peering out the kitchen window from behind a violently twitching curtain, not me!"

"Shhh!" hissed Remus, in a tone that clearly wasn't meant to carry as well as it did. "Be _quiet_! We'll never get anything out of him this way!" Percy began to think he had been wrong in his assessment. Maybe Remus was just 'The Sneaky, More Effectively Evil One.'

"You _know_ how I feel about curtains, and you're absolute pants at deception, Moony."

"I meant it!" said Remus, firmly. "Shut up!"

"Or else...???"

"Or else you _know_ what."

"Shutting up right smartly, Mr. Werewolf, sir!"

Percy didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him to turn the painting around before.

Percy was smug for a few minutes, but eventually it became difficult to ignore that even though the painting was facing the wall, he could still hear its inhabitants quite clearly.

Percy relocated the bulky canvas into the closet with some difficulty. This improved the situation somewhat: although Percy could still make out Sirius' outraged roars of "How _dare_ you put me in the closet, you wanker?! I've had quite enough of that for one lifetime!", they were extremely muffled.

Really, if one was humming and singing the chorus of Celestina Warbeck's latest tune, "Slip me a bit of that old swish-and-flick!", one could hardly even hear the shouting.


	5. Chapter 5

Percy paced up and down his flat, trying to figure out how exactly he should best let down Oliver. This kind of messy situation was _exactly_ why Percy didn't ever try to date.

He would have to apologize and gently correct the impression that Oliver had been laboring under, namely, that he was the slightest bit gay and could possibly be interested in going on a date with another man. He would just have to explain about his political opponents and the spell, and Oliver, being the charming, considerate, _lovely_ man he was, would just have to understand that the rejection was nothing personal.

Percy tried not to think about Angharad Griffith's lecture about Oliver's broken heart and especially not about the part where she'd said something about "having his head" if he spurned Oliver, because really, if a friendly punch on the shoulder left him with limited use of his arm, he really didn't think he could survive the collective wrath of her thirteen teammates.

And Percy definitely was not thinking about the kiss in his office, at all. The fact that Oliver was probably brilliant enough at kissing to qualify for the World Cup level, if there was such a thing as a World Cup of Canoodling, was completely and totally irrelevant to the situation at hand.

There was a knock at his door, and Percy steeled himself, ready to deliver his speech, but when he opened the door he only got as far as "Oliver, good evening," before he entirely forgot what he was going to say next.

So instead he grabbed Oliver by the hand and pulled him into the flat, lest the neighbors see. Not that there would be anything to see, of course, but still, his breaking up with a man rather suggested that there was something to break up, not that there was, but it wouldn't do to have the gossip next door thinking that!

Then Oliver was looking at him with this slightly glazed look, and Percy noticed he was holding a bunch of flowers in a red-and-gold color scheme, and then Percy opened his mouth to try to tell him what he had planned to say, but he just managed, "Oliver!" again.

This was _exactly_ why Percy always wrote his speeches down and kept them in his pocket, even if he never ended up referring to them. He'd been tempted, but then he'd worried about what would happen if someone found the paper in the meantime.

Oliver said, "Percy," rather intimately, and Percy realized he was still holding Oliver's hand, and in fact was sort of caressing it.

Percy meant to let go of Oliver's hand, he really did, but somehow his arm muscles weren't cooperating, which was probably the fault of the enormous bruise courtesy of Angharad Griffiths, and instead he ended up pulling Oliver closer.

Once that happened, he was within that radius of Oliver where Percy had previously determined logic to be a complete impossibility, so it wasn't entirely surprising that Percy couldn't help but touch Oliver's jaw and twine his fingers in Oliver's hair. That in turn suddenly and quite unexpectedly led to kissing Oliver, which Percy supposed wasn't actually helping Oliver to get the right idea about his intentions after all, but then Oliver was kissing him back and it was just as devastating of his ability to think coherently as it had been back at the office, only perhaps more so because here there were no secretaries or portraits who could conceivably interrupt them.

When Percy tried to get out bits of his prepared speech in between kissing Oliver, he managed "you've cast a spell on me!" and "I really can't help myself!" By the time Percy had made it to, "I really don't think we should go out!" he had pulled off Oliver's robes and tugged open his shirt, and the flowers had been crushed underfoot, and somehow, in that context it sounded a lot less like a rejection and a lot more like an invitation to spend the night.

Somehow, before his knees gave way entirely, Percy maneuvered the madness masquerading as a kiss in direction of where he thought his sofa still ought to be, unless that part of his life had also been tumultuously rearranged when he wasn't looking.

The back of his leg painfully connected with the sofa arm, and he fell, pulling Oliver with him. They landed in a jumble with Oliver literally sitting on Percy's lap, and Percy thought he'd quite had the breath knocked out of him by the fall, because why else would his breath hitch in his chest like this?

Oliver shifted his weight, and suddenly Percy felt a hot hardness pressing unmistakably against his thigh, as alien as it was familiar, and it was just too much. He _wanted_ Oliver, and he no longer cared about whether that desire was really his or imposed by someone else, just that he felt more alive than he had in a long time, folded into Oliver's arms.

Percy swallowed the tense, jumbled mass of panic rising in him, and since he could feel his hands starting to shake, he put his arms around Oliver's waist, snaking underneath the shirt that had somehow been torn open.

As Percy traced one hand hesitantly traced up the planes of muscle of Oliver's spine, Oliver made a noise that went straight to Percy's cock, and arched, leaving a stretch of neck vulnerably presented to Percy, who finally gave up wondering what Oliver might taste like and ran his tongue down the salty juncture of Oliver's neck and shoulder.

Oliver moaned, "Ah, Percy," and raked bitten fingernails in Percy's hair, which felt vastly better than it ought to, especially given that hair wasn't supposed to have sensation.

"Mnnnf," said Percy into the spot on Oliver's neck where the stubble ended, giving way to unremitting softness.

"God, Percy!" was followed by an incoherent noise when Percy bit down slightly, at first by accident. "Look, I'm not at all trying to say that I object, but, are you sure we should do this? I mean, right now?"

Percy reluctantly abandoned the intricacies of Oliver's neck to stare blankly at Oliver. He had no precise idea what Oliver meant by "this", but honestly, whatever it was, he was starting to feel quite sure he did want to do it. After all, if he was going to be laboring under a spell that sent his hormones careening out of control in a tailspin, the very least he could do is enjoy the ride?

"I mean, I really like you, and I don't want this to turn into some kind of one-night-stand rebound thing. I don't usually, really!"

Percy blushed and said, "Err, me neither. _Really_, I don't."

Oliver looked at Percy shrewdly for a minute. "Wait, have you ever done this before? With a bloke?"

Percy flushed further and shook his head.

"Oh," said Oliver, looking rather like he'd just been hit with a Bludger. "Sweet Merlin." He made to get off Percy's lap. "I really shouldn't take advantage, it would be so wrong..."

Percy was desperate. "But, I've done research! Comprehensively!" he said. He forbore to mention that he'd requested a sex manual from the library with an eye to curing rather than honing his homosexuality. But he _had_ read the entire manual, even if it was quite by accident.

"Oh, dear fuck, _Percy_. You _would_ have done research, wouldn't you?"

Percy tried to smile.

"How much restraint do you expect me to have anyway? How the hell am I supposed to say no to _you_?"

"So don't," said Percy, softly. "Stay. Show me."

Oliver made a chocked, helpless sound, and then he very deliberately reached out and lifted off Percy's glasses, setting them on the coffee table.

Percy stared at the fuzzy blur that he knew was the crack in his ceiling, wondering if he'd ever be able to sit on his sofa without remembering what had just transpired. Maybe he would need to get a new sofa, and make some kind of shrine out of this one, because he would die if any member of his family were ever to sit on the sofa on which _things_ had taken place.

"Wow," said Oliver, draped languidly and extremely nakedly over Percy.

"Indeed," said Percy, still trembling a bit and quite too exhausted to be even slightly mortified at the fact that he could still taste Oliver in his mouth.

"Much better than I ever imagined. And I imagined it a lot, you know."

"Stop it." Percy knew when he was being teased.

"No, really," insisted Oliver. "Especially at school. I had this one particular favorite fantasy about the Prefects' Bath."

"You're having me on," said Percy.

Oliver continued, though he was talking at Percy's shoulder. "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I was just so curious about whether you had freckles everywhere. Never even dreamed I'd actually get to chart your freckles first-hand." He demonstrated by kissing a freckled spot of Percy's collarbone.

Percy set what surely had to be a world record for amount of blushing done in one evening, especially when one considered the sheer amount of skin exposed. "Well, I suppose there's no substitute for hands-on learning, I guess."

Oliver sounded gleeful. "I also really didn't think I'd _ever_ hear that coming from you, in any context!"

There was a silence which by all rights should have been awkward, given that Percy's extensive knowledge of etiquette did not extend to situations that started out as a planned romantic outing, but that never left one's living room and instead unexpectedly devolved into putting one's cock into someone else's mouth, and then returning the favor and _liking_ it, and then somehow ending up having another go at it which ended up being even better because fingers were really much better at explaining what the prostate was all about than even the most helpfully illustrated book.

However, in spite of the nakedness and the stickiness and the fact that their reservation had been for several hours ago, the entire ridiculous situation really just turned out to be rather companionable.

"I don't think I ever want to move again," said Percy, tracing a pattern on Oliver's shoulder, underneath a tattoo of a lion in Puddlemere United colors which reminded Percy rather strongly of Ravenclaw, and he consequently found a bit too appealing, because he'd always felt like he really would have been placed there if it hadn't been for the weight of his very large, very Gryffindor family. After another moment of reflection he added, "Well, except for maybe to the bedroom because it might get cold and a bit crowded on the sofa, eventually."

Oliver shot him a wicked smile. "Wish, command. You don't really have to move. I think Curry A Torch delivers, too."

Percy smiled, and because apparently having sex completely had deteriorated his ability to think before he spoke, said, "Is there a restaurant called Curry The Day?" before he realized how unspeakably lame he was.

Much to Percy's amazement, Oliver laughed at possibly the stupidest joke Percy had made in a very long time. "There bloody well should be."


	6. Chapter 6

Percy went to his appointment for a routine physical at St. Mungo's with rather surprising reluctance. It was perfectly ridiculous, of course, but he wasn't absolutely as eager to be cured of his homosexuality as he probably ought to have been: he would miss Oliver's lopsided smile, Oliver's large, calloused hands and everything they did, starting with but not at all limited to the back massages, and definitely also Oliver's bum, which was really quite magnificent if one was into that sort of thing, as Percy most definitely had been these past couple of weeks.

Percy would miss Oliver's cheerfully obscene prattle about Quidditch, and also Oliver's patient listening to the details of the machinations at the Ministry, particularly the way that Oliver would draw accompanying strategy diagrams that were even surprisingly helpful at times, though Percy had to remind Oliver on a regular basis that there wasn't really any such thing as "off sides" in politics.

Percy would possibly even miss the utter chaos that Oliver had begun exerting upon his flat on an increasingly regular basis. It would be extremely disconcerting to be able to open his icebox at home without finding spare athletic socks next to the ice cream, or to be able to find his favorite shirt again because it hadn't been abducted, or to have jam without toast crumbs and streaks of butter in it.

He would miss mock-deducting house points from Oliver for all of the above offenses, and he would miss giving them all back at night when Oliver more than made up for it. (In fact, Percy didn't think Gryffindor's actual house points had ever been so high.)

And it would definitely be strange to go back to using his hypoallergenic pillow for a pillow, rather than Oliver's shoulder.

Somehow the beckoning of a tidy future of actually getting to wear his own shirts, an icebox which contained only food, jam which only contained jam, along with returning home after work to peace and quiet, didn't seem nearly as appealing as it once had.

Percy quite seriously toyed with the idea of rescheduling to put off the inevitable.

Still, it was all for the best, or at least, he tried to convince himself of that. It was an election year, and if the way that he and Oliver routinely shagged each other against Quidditch stands and desks in various departments at the Ministry were to make it into _the Daily Prophet_, it would be an epic fiasco, since the only thing that sold better than a sports scandal or a political scandal or a sex scandal, was a sports-and-politics sex scandal. Moreover, with the frequency of the shagging, that possibility was really more of a probability, and he owed it to his career, and also to Oliver's career, to stop.

Besides, Penelope would be hurt if he didn't keep his appointment, since they usually went to lunch together afterwards, and it was always lovely to see her again. They were both so busy with their respective jobs that it was usually far too long between social visits. Penelope kept threatening to apply for a time-turner if that was what it took.

So when Penelope pronounced him "fit as a fiddle!" and asked Percy if he had any other concerns he wanted to address, Percy was duty bound to mention the magically-induced homosexuality.

He was somewhat taken aback when Penelope giggled like she hadn't even done back when she _was_ a schoolgirl.

"Penny, _really_, don't be so unprofessional!"

His personal doctor and the head of general medicine at St. Mungo's reigned herself in with effort. "Well, all right, whatever makes you think that?"

Percy scowled. "I should think it would be obvious. You know, fancying _men_."

Penelope tried hard to keep a straight face, although the way that a dimple quivered in and out of her cheek indicated it was an ongoing battle. "Well, yes, I _do_ understand what homosexuality means. No, I meant, the magically-induced part."

Bristling, Percy said, "Well, it's just been so sudden and consuming, and besides, I would know if I'd been that way, wouldn't I?"

At Penelope's arched eyebrow, Percy added, "Look, just do the damned tests already, will you?"

With her usual thoroughness, Penelope did spend the next two hours, which had probably been earmarked for a leisurely lunch, instead running different diagnostics for untoward potions, hexes, spells, jinxes and charms. While Percy squirmed impatiently and leafed through a Quidditch magazine out of pure boredom, Penelope efficiently bustled in and out of the room, periodically bringing colleagues with a specialty outside her own expertise, such as obscure goblin charms, gypsy curses or house-elf magic.

To the parade of other mediwizards, mediwitches, and medielves (Percy hadn't even known such a thing existed, though he thought he saw Hermione's hand in it), Penelope only mentioned that she was looking for a love inducement, not the particular type of love induced. Percy was profoundly grateful for her discretion, knowing that any other healer would have leaked the news to a paper, Hippocratic Oath be damned.

He waited with itchy impatience for the tests to be completed, while he fidgeted and tried hard not to think of how sad Oliver would be when he broke the news to him. This was hard to do because Oliver's name was everywhere in the Quidditch magazine, and even when Percy switched to a very dated copy of _Witch Weekly_, there was a lengthy interview with the second runner-up for that year's "Most Charming Smile" Award.

Percy gave up and resigned himself to reading about Oliver's favorite color (orange) and his favorite flavor of ice cream (almond, which certainly explained a lot about the enthusiastic reaction Percy had gotten when he had run out of his usual shampoo and switched to the expensive shampoo his sister had left after a visit).

Percy supposed the expose on his boyfriend's habits might have been incredibly useful if only they didn't have to break up soon, although he had to disagree with the accuracy of the report's list of qualities that Oliver was looking for in a dream girl. The article quoted "intelligence, power, and maybe a little bit of that adorable awkward shyness!" but Percy privately felt secure in adding, "a great big cock!" to the list. But he certainly couldn't argue with the accuracy of the winking, saucy photo of a shirtless Oliver accompanying the article.

Percy heard a deliberate cough, and guiltily shoved the magazine away while Penelope scrutinized him.

"And, what did you find?" said Percy, eager to get it over with.

"Well," said Penelope. "Absolutely nothing, actually."

Percy gaped, trying to wrap his mind around the impossible statement. "Nothing?"

"Well, except for a common childhood charm to make someone like spinach, but that must be absolutely ancient now. I did take the liberty of removing that, by the way."

Percy was quite too upset to mourn that his love of fettuccini al Florentine had been based on a sham. "But surely there must be something you haven't tested for?"

"Love potions are actually an incredibly common ailment, so it's one of the things I feel most confident in assaying for," said Penelope, authoritatively. "If we haven't found a love inducement, it's not because our test aren't expansive enough. It's because there _isn't_ a love inducement. And there wasn't one."

"But, but then how could I have..." Percy trailed off. He could feel himself blushing.

"Look, Percy... have you ever considered that you might have always harbored certain tendencies?"

"No, of _course_ not!"

"And thinking you were under a spell allowed you, paradoxically, to be more honest with yourself about what you really wanted?"

"Absolutely not! That's absurd!"

"Oh, Percy. I know this must be hard for you, but you know, there _were_ signs."

"What signs?!"

"Back when we were dating, you know, it's why I finally suggested we break up. Not just the time I caught you with Ginny's diary, either, though I didn't know what that meant until much later."

"But I didn't know that he was evil!" protested Percy, but Penelope ignored him.

"Because otherwise you didn't seem that, well, _into_ me. And you haven't exactly dated much since, have you?"

"I loved you!" protested Percy. "And I pined after you for years! Decades!"

Penelope snorted. "You loved me like a friend! And whoever the lucky new fellow is, well, I'd posit that you love him in a much less friendly way!"

"How do you even know there is someone?" Percy sputtered. "Not that there is, of course there isn't, not at all!"

"I think, and mind you, I'm speaking as a highly trained medical professional here, that you really couldn't reach there with your own teeth." Penelope waved at his neck.

Percy looked at her, pathetically. "It's not _so_ obvious, is it?"

Penelope rummaged in a cupboard and handed him a tub of ointment. "The love bite won't be if you put that on your neck. The bruising should fade in a few minutes. Also good for other, ah, tender tissues."

The flush, which had just begun to fade, returned in full force. "Thanks," Percy mumbled.

"Look, you know you can count on me to be discreet," said Penelope, primly. "You won't find this splashed all over the front page. I won't tell anyone."

Percy sighed, flipped open his appointment book, and reluctantly removed "diagnose, fix perverted dark spells cast by enemy political group to drive me off my game" from his color-coded to-do list. "And you're really quite sure it isn't some kind of magical coercion?"

"Positive," she said. "But I think maybe you'd better have me for lunch so I can pump you for details, just to be safe." Penelope peered over his shoulder at the appointment book, then added, "I'm free next Thursday."

Percy left St. Mungo's with a swing in his step, suddenly feeling unreasonably happy. He would make a quick stop at the bakery and head home, because it was just half after one o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday, so chances were quite good that his bed still contained a sleeping Oliver.


	7. Chapter 7

Percy apparated into the Weasley-Granger household, which was quiet enough that Percy began immediately to worry what the children were up to. Looking blissfully unconcerned, Hermione had her feet kicked up on an ottoman, a thick tome in her lap and her newest child sleeping peacefully in a cradle next to her. When she looked up and noted who her caller was, however, a very guilty look crept over her face.

"Oh, Percy, hello! How are things at the office?"

"They've been a bit, ah, noisy... and you know, frightfully action-filled."

Hermione turned a bit pink. "Oh, yes?"

"But it hasn't really proved an insurmountable difficulty. Did a spot of redecorating, though."

"Ah, lovely." Hermione fidgeted with a teacup.

"But I was wondering if perhaps I could apply for using some of my vacation time - you know, when you come back to work next week."

"Oh, of _course_," Hermione said, though she looked very surprised by the request, probably because Percy had never taken any of his vacation time before now. "How long were you thinking of going?"

"Oh, six, maybe eight? Would that be alright?"

"Days?" Hermione clarified, looking like she was almost expecting him to specify hours, given his extreme reluctance to take any vacation time in the past.

"Oh, no. Weeks!"

Hermione snorted tea out her nose.

"Really, that's not even half of my accrued vacation time!"

Hermione dabbed delicately at the pages of the book with her sleeve, mopping up the tea.

"But, you see, Oliver has to be back in time for the World Cup."

The teacup dropped onto the floor with a clatter, but didn't break. Percy suspected anti-breaking charms, given the temperament of the Weasley-Granger offspring.

By way of response, Percy allowed himself a self-satisfied, only slightly embarrassed smile.

Hermione sighed, dug around in a bag on the table next to her and called out, "Rooooon!"

Ron shambled over from the kitchen, his hair and wand coated in what appeared to be flour. He greeted Percy distractedly before turning to his wife, "Look, better be quick, I'm leaving the twins alone with Sophonisba and a really large bowl of cookie dough."

Hermione scowled at him, then counted out 30 Galleons from her wallet. She handed the fist of coins wordlessly to her husband.

Ron looked confused for a few seconds, then he looked at his older brother, and broke into a wide smile. "Oliver? _Really?!_"

Percy flushed and looked at his feet.

Ron crowed, "Ha, I _knew_ it! Way to go, Percy!"

Hermione shrugged apologetically at Percy. "I just thought that Marcus Flint might be more your type."

Something that sounded suspiciously like "toldyouso" emerged from Ron, but was quickly covered up by a cough.

Hermione continued like she hadn't heard, "But Percy, we're really very happy for you... and you know Fred and George will be simply thrilled that it's Oliver, even if they are now deeply in debt to Ron."

Percy didn't know whether to be offended that the bet hadn't been about his orientation (couldn't _someone_ be surprised that he was a great sodding poof?), or offended at the thought that he might find Marcus Flint attractive. In the end he settled on merely being reassured that Hermione didn't know _everything_ after all.

* * *

**The End (for real this time).**


End file.
